


lambskin

by rottenstrawberrymilk



Series: short stories [4]
Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Amnesia, Biting, Cannibalism, Choking, Crying, Cults, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fear, Fluff, Guilt, Heat Stroke, Love Bites, Love Confessions, Manic Episode, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Miscarriage, Obedience, Obsession, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Punishment, Roughness, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26369674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenstrawberrymilk/pseuds/rottenstrawberrymilk
Summary: thomas hewitt x reader short story
Relationships: Leatherface | Thomas Brown Hewitt & You, Leatherface | Thomas Brown Hewitt/You
Series: short stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125431
Comments: 22
Kudos: 222





	1. heat stroke

The unbearable heat beat down on you like no other hands had before. Shaking, dragging steps, on burning road--so hot black melted to the thin slip on shoes barely clinging to your feet. If they hadn't been there, the pain from the heat might have been just the same. As you stumbled, struggling to keep your balance, your heel caught on the long hem of your white dress. A loud tear echoed in your ears. The white tatters brushed over your legs.

_White...white dress. Wedding dress,_ was he only thought you could discern in your boiling head as sweat poured down your brow and desperate gasp left your dry, chapped lips. 

White but ruined. Torn with what looked like dirt and...and blood. Blood all over. 

Between your dizzying, spinning vision, jerking as you limped and the pounding in your head you had no idea how long you'd been walking or where you'd come from or where you were going or how you were even still standing. The pain in your leg had become more noticeable to you. Maybe you broke a bone. 

That concern soon left your head as another heat wave seemed to crash down upon you. If you were to have cried then, you were sure that they would have evaporated upon hitting the ground. You could taste salty sweat in your mouth. You'd long stopped trying to wipe it away from your face, your brow, your arm soaked every time. 

God, the _sun_ , the merciless _sun_.

Of all the things that were going to finally kill you, after the hell you'd likely gone through, it was going to be the sun. 

For a moment, you looked up. Before, it'd been too much even to lift your head, to open your eyes all the way. But just for a moment, you were able to. You didn't want to die looking down at the black, sizzling road, rough with gravel and thriving weeds. You thought that you saw someone walking in the distance. It could have been a mirage, you'd already had a good share of those. But it still would have been worth a shot to try. If you could have. Your throat was too dry to call out and the pounding in your head only grew worse. And your body. God, your entire body fucking _ached_. Like you'd jumped out of a moving car. 

Without your vision on your feet, you ended up stumbling and tripping, dizzy, losing your balance for real this time. There wasn't much you could do beside put your weight to your side, collapsing off the road and into the more forgiving dirt. You'd rather have felt the rocks and gravel in your cheek than burning asphalt. You struggled to keep your eyes open, your fingers half-heartedly digging into the same dirt that cushioned your fall. You tried to push yourself up again--you tried to get up so you could try to catch the stranger's attention again, maybe get some help. But your arms, bruised and bloodied, shook and you collapsed back down into the dirt with a soft whine. 

A massive shadow slowly came over you. A cloud? On a day like this? Unlikely. You knew that well enough. 

You wanted to lift your head, to open your heavy eyes just to see. 

But you couldn't.

You'd lost.

You'd thought it'd be the end. 

So why were you suddenly seeing light? Draped over someone's broad shoulder, swaying back and forth almost dizzily. Your fingers twitched, faintly, brushing over a rough shirt before everything was black and gone. Maybe you were dead now? Apparently not because once again your eyes cracked open under dim light. It'd been water that stirred you--cool, heavenly water. Dripping onto you. If you'd had the energy you'd be crying, thanking God. 

Instead, all you could do was sigh, your eyes falling weakly shut again. It wasn't just water dripping on your face--but a rag, soaked with it, climbing your neck before falling over your forehead, offering even more relief from the fire that seemed to burn inside you. Thin fingers pressed under your chin, tilting it up. With your mouth slightly parted, you felt water on your tongue as well. You were conscious enough to swallow, which seemed to encourage whoever was nursing you to pour more into your mouth. And you were eternally grateful for that. Your parched throat felt _so_ much better, maybe enough to talk. You wanted to thank whoever was helping you, but the most you could do was let out a weak moan as your head was lowered back into a lap. You went to grasp at the bowl at your lips with your own hands, wanting to tilt it more. You quickly found you couldn't move your hands--they're tied and bound to something.

"Poor thing...poor thing, oh..." came a woman's raspy voice--she was elderly, you realized, even with your eyes still shut.

Mostly half conscious, you were still unable to move and you wouldn't have wanted to anyways. Just there enough to listen in on the conversation happening. Seemed like there was someone else in the room the woman was talking to. 

"Don't know why you wanna clean 'er up, just more food to put on the table anyhow," said a man, gruff and angry. Instantly, you were wary of whoever this voice might have belonged to, even though your head still felt murky and you could barely form a coherent thought still. 

The woman, who still had you on her lap, her hands almost protective around your face and neck replied. "Tommy deserves somethin' nice. _He_ found her, didn't he? Not you. 'S not up to you, Charlie." 

He scoffed. "What, you think she'll actually last with _him?_ Boy's good at one thing and it's butchering. He ain't got it in him. He needs'ta focus on puttin' food on the table, he ain't got time for some...some _pet."_

You felt a gentle hand in your tangled hair. "This family gotta continue somehow. We ain't gonna last forever, food on the table or not." 

"She ain't even our kind!"

"She will be."

Your had had lifted ever so slightly as the conversation had drawn on, your eyes still shut, soft, shallow breaths still coming from you. You weren't really processing anything that had been said, as hard as you might have tried to. If anything, you felt like straining was giving you a headache to match the worsening aches in your leg and the rest of your battered, overheated body. You laid your head back down in the woman's lap, unable to keep it up any longer. Unconsciousness claimed you again. 

But soon, it released you around the same time you felt your body being grabbed and brought up. Hung over the same shoulder that had carried you from the burning asphalt. 

The maternal, elderly female voice from before spoke again. "Careful, Tommy. Gentle, be gentle, now. She's still hurt real bad." 

Your fingers gripped softly at the back of a bloodstained shirt as the man carrying you began to move out of the room. Looks like your hands weren't bound or tied to anything anymore. You attempted to sit up slightly, but you didn't quite have the strength and ended up falling limp back over the broad, powerful shoulder you'd been slung over. A bit of a gentle, frustrated whine left you. To contrast your noise, the man carrying you let out a low, warning grunt of his own as his arm tightened down over your waist to pin you closer. You hadn't planned on moving again anyways, but oddly enough the pressure on your back, securing you tightly was somewhat comforting. Like a weighted blanket. 

Eventually, he moved a large panel on the wall to the side before descending down a flight of stairs. The jerking bounce in his step made you feel a bit nauseous on him, and you shut your eyes tightly, hair hanging past your head as you once again wondered if you were going to faint again. 

When he got to the bottom you could hear water. It's flooded down here, but it was tons cooler than it was out on that open road so you weren't really one to complain. If anything, the new coldness and darkness soothed you. It made your head hurt less and you stopped feeling like you were on the verge of overheating into unconsciousness again. You didn't have much time to settle on the shoulder of the man carrying you because he was quick to lift you off and up again, before setting you down on what looked like some sort of an operation table. At the moment, no sense of alarm came to you, instead just an overwhelming need to sleep on something that looked remotely bed like. _God_ you were exhausted. 

Even if you wanted to, you were sure you couldn't even sit up, still weak and on the verge of blacking out again. He laid you down onto the cool table with foreign, massive, scarred hands. A soft sigh escaped your lips as your head settled upon the table. You felt his rough palm suddenly on your wrist before a leather strap stretched over it. You laid, holding your breath, eyes still shut, before the sound of hammering startled you slightly. You winced with each clang as he secured your other wrist with a similar strap. Soon, you became used to it and your body became lax again. 

Slowly, you dropped your head back to the side, cheek pressed against cool material before you fell back into welcoming blackness again. 


	2. meathooks

When you finally came to, the pain was even worse than before. Like you were finally all the way conscious and could now feel every little bit of your injuries and bruises. Wincing, you attempted to reach up and press a numb hand against your head. However, it only jerked faintly at your side, once again bound down so you were unable to move it. Your fingers curled inwards towards your palm slightly. 

You inhaled sharply, holding your breath for a moment. Your throat was too sore and dry to properly scream and…you didn’t really want to anyways. Something in you, a gut feeling, told you that if you screamed things would get worse. You couldn’t stop thinking that again and again,

_Scream and it’ll be worse._

_Scream and it’ll be worse._

_Scream and it’ll be worse._

You don’t remember where you learned that from or why the inclination to obey was so…intense. It’s like a command ingrained deep in your brain, apparently well enough for it to be something you remembered like a deja vu, whereas you could remember little else. 

You released the breath of air from your lungs. It was cold down here but you’d rather the cold than the scorching heat above. Slowly, you laid your head back against the table you were strapped to. The strain in your neck had become too much. You attempted to get your bearings, get your thoughts in order and try to calm yourself. But between the darkness all around you and the slow drip of water you couldn’t see, it was hard to keep your resting heart rate. 

You blinked up into the darkness, catching a glint here and there? Stars?

No. 

Meathooks. Hanging from the ceiling. 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

Heavy footsteps echoed a little ways past you. You angled your head as much as you could towards the direction of the sound. It was a relieving break from the slow, tense drip of water that had quickly started to grate on your ears. And it meant that maybe someone was coming down to help you. Someone was coming down to save you. Wisely, you chose not to call out, in case it was the opposite. 

Dim, flickering lights turned on and you shut your eyes briefly. Your head was starting to pound again…You were tempted to ask if the lights could be shut back off. You opened your eyes again when a shadow fell over you. Slowly, your eyes focused on the hulking man standing before you. You blinked slowly at him. You thought that you might have recognized the silhouette for a second—maybe the man from the road? Had he taken you here? 

One of his large, rough hands suddenly moved. Scarred fingers grabbed at your chin, jerking it back to the side so your head was straight and you were looking back up again. You kept still, even when he wasn’t gripping your chin, as you felt his palm run over your cheek. You felt it up against your sensitive neck. He must have touched a bruise or something like that, because a dull ache shot through you and you couldn’t help but wince under his hand.

Giving a soft cough to clear your throat, you tried to speak. “C-careful please. It hurts.” Your rasp was so quiet, you weren’t even sure if he could hear it. But from the slow tilt of his head to the side, you thought he did. 

Feeling suddenly relieved at the idea of finally having someone else in the room with you, someone who could understand you and someone you could talk to, you shifted a little bit on the table, trying to get your head more comfortable. 

“Do you know who I am? And where did you find me?” You tried, your eyes darting nervously over to the man beside you. 

Your heart dropped when he didn’t respond. He just looked down at you, eyes narrowed and darkened between tangled locks of hair. Why wouldn’t he talk to you? Frustration filled you as you turned your head to the side, away from him, harshly and blinked back tears. Jaw tightening, your grit your teeth together to hold back what might have been a distressed sob. 

You couldn’t even remember your own name. 

All you had was the feeling that something bad happened to you. Something really bad. 

Uncontrollably, you began to shake. With another heavy, trembling breath, you tried to pull yourself together and turned your head back to look at the man at your side. 

“S-sorry,” you stammered. You cleared your raw throat again. “Can I have some water, please? If it isn’t too much…” 

Once again, the large man stared down at you, silently. He then turned and left, which you hoped was his way of saying ‘yes’ to your very simple request. You let out another heavy sigh, readjusting your head and straightening it, since it was beginning to ache under the strain once again. Your fingers curled more into your palms as you jerked slightly against the bindings pinning your wrists down to test their strength. You weren’t trying to escape or anything, you just wanted to get more comfortable and being strapped down was beginning to make you feel more and more trapped and antsy by the minute. 

Maybe you could convince the large man to take them off you.

About ten minutes later, you heard familiar heavy footsteps, echoing off the cold, unwelcoming walls. 

Time to test your idea.

He had a bowl of water in his hands. He drew closer to the table, putting it along your side. You felt his hand at the back of your head, clumsy and awkward like he wasn’t used to handling people in a way like this. Sharing his stiffness, you turned your head a bit to the side, looking up at him in the dim light.

“I can do it myself,” you offered. Your wrists jerked slightly against the leather straps, bringing his attention to them.

He lifted his head up straighter, looking rather distrustful and overall not a big fan of your suggestion. You wondered if you should have just sucked it up and let him give you the water himself. Now you weren’t sure if you were going to get anything at all. You bit the inside of your cheek, shrinking back against the table, trying to look as small and nonthreatening as possible. 

Softly, you spoke. “I won’t run. I promise. The last thing on my mind is going out in that heat with no where to go anyways.” 

_Not yet anyways,_ you thought off to the side as you tried to read the man’s expression. 

He turned away and you bit back your frustration as your head hit back against the table again. You didn’t realize that he wasn’t going back up the stairs and leaving you all alone again. He was actually approaching a messy workbench, taking a hammer from it and turning to approach you once more. He still seemed reluctant to free you, but his head lowered slightly at he reached over you to almost effortlessly yank the nails from the table. 

You thought it’d be best not to make any sudden moves, feeling the tension and distrust heavy and humid in the air. You moved the leather straps from your wrists, slowly sitting up. You rubbed at your raw wrists, trying to regain the feeling back in them as you pulled your legs to your chest. Your chin rested on your knees, overtop the white fabric of the dress for the briefest of moments.

Your arms shook badly as you went to take the bowl of water at your side. You went to raise it to your lips, your hands trembling enough to spill some. Larger hands descended over top of yours, holding them steady for you. It actually helped a lot and you managed to get down about half of the water before you had to come up for air. You’d been a lot thirstier than you had thought. Working through your ragged gasps, you tipped the bowl up higher, draining the last of it before setting it down with a heavy sigh, your once parched throat feeling much better. 

With the back of your hand, you wiped moisture from the corner of your lips. “I think I nearly died out there huh? Or I would have if you weren’t there…uhm…didn’t catch your name, I think. If you told me, I don’t remember it.” A bit of embarrassment washed over you.

The man didn’t respond. His large, scarred hands were still on yours, holding them. His grip tightened slightly as you looked down at them. 

_Fuck, he’s like really big…_

You shrugged your shoulders, tearing your eyes away from his hands. Was it weird to have stared at them for as long as you had?

“That’s fine. I don’t remember my name anyways so I don’t think you’d know what to call me either.” 

Maybe the shock of the sudden amnesia hadn’t set all the way in yet or you were choosing to be blissfully casual about it to cope, because you were confused to as why you weren’t terrified at the idea of no longer being able to remember anything about yourself. Or what had happened prior to this man finding you, wandering on the boiling hot road. Only scraps of that even—you’d been pretty out of it and on the verge of heat stroke during the entire ordeal. Your eyes wandered to the white fabric still clinging to your body.

It finally hit you.

_Wedding dress._

Your stomach seemed to drop and a shiver overtook you. 

“D-do you have like a shirt or-or something I can wear? I don’t want to be in this dress anymore…” 

The man stared at you for a moment, like he was confused by you. You stared back up at him. His hand left yours and he turned once again to head back up the stairs. You wondered if he wanted you to follow him. You didn’t want to find out and figured it was safer to just stay put. You felt bad for making him go back up the stairs for a second time to fulfill yet another request of yours, but the dress against you was suddenly making your skin crawl and you weren’t sure if you could bear it.

Your gaze followed him up the stairs and you held your position and breath for a few more seconds, just to make sure he was gone. Slowly, you shifted off the table, careful not to put too much sudden weight on your slightly shaking legs. One of your ankles hurt _really_ bad, so you shifted your weight onto the non-injured one. 

As you wandered slowly around the basement, you checked for any windows or anything that could be of help to you. Things could have been worse, obviously, and you still remembered the heat outside. You really didn’t intend on staying here once you came up with a decent plan for getting the hell out. You already felt a little bad for checking for places you could squeeze through and escape from, any second entrances or exits other than the stairs. You felt as though the man with the strange leather mask who towered over you was treating you surprisingly well—better than the merciless sun had. 

Once again you found yourself thinking that there could be worse things than him out there. There was a reason you were like this. There had to be. And maybe it laid outside, waiting for you to reappear, in that hell. 

Paranoia filled you as you stepped away from the wall you’d been near and you started to have some serious second thoughts. It didn’t help your nerves when you heard the cock of a gun. You turned around quickly, gasping in fear. 

It was an older man in a sheriff uniform with a name tag reading “Hoyt”. He was holding a pistol in his hand, and it was pointed right at you. You froze up, holding your breath as he squinted at you in the dimness. He came closer, maybe to get a better look at you. The closer he came, the more filled with dread and intense dislike you became. You were sure you’d never been one to judge someone on their appearances. But one look at him told you that you were looking at an evil man. 

“Don’t get too comfy here now, sweetheart,” he warned you, southern drawl thick, “You ain’t gonna last long.” 

You held still, like a statue, and just looked at him. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response. You weren’t sure actually responding to a threat that came out of no where would help anything at all, especially when you could sense the hostility of the sheriff in front of you. Was he looking to pick a fight with you? 

The sheriff unfortunately took your silence as an invitation to continue talking. “What?” He snapped, pushing the pistol closer to your face. It took everything you had not to flinch and give him an excuse to pull the trigger. “Think you’re too _good_ to talk to me in your little raggedy princess dress?” 

He did pull the trigger, but only after he’d quickly aimed maybe a foot away from your side. This time, he succeeded in startling you, and you jumped, biting back a scream. To say you were terrified was an understatement.

“Fucking _answer_ me, woman,” he demanded. 

You looked at him, your brows knotted, horror obvious in your eyes. You couldn’t stop the tears from gathering in them. “I-I don’t know what you want me to say,” you told him, your voice small and shaking. 

The sheriff readjusted his aim so that the pistol was once again pointed at you. Seriously what the fuck did he want you to say?! Was there a script you were supposed to be reading off of or something?!

The sheriff laughed. “Tommy won’t keep you around long. You’ll be hanging on one of those there meat hooks before the week is out. I’ll make sure of it. He’s got a fuckin’ job to do and if you get in his way…may God have mercy on you because I sure as _hell_ fuckin’ won’t.” 

Stunned by his outburst, you tried once again to deescalate the situation for the sake of not having your brains splattered on the wall behind you. “I-I really don’t know what you’re-“ 

Without warning, he lurched forwards and struck you upside the head, hard, with the firearm. You let out a piercing shriek of pain and collapsed to the damp ground, a hand to the side of your skull. You shut your eyes tightly, biting back a sob as you grit your teeth. You weren’t sure if the sudden moistness in your hand was from newly drawn blood or just from hitting the wet floor. Or maybe it was tears. Honestly, your head was still spinning so it could have been all three. 

A moan of pain escaped you as you felt the barrel of the pistol suddenly up against your head. 

“Now, now, don’t cry, don’tchu fucking cry, bitch,” snarled the sheriff, too close for your comfort. 

You flinched when a loud thud echoed across the basement. A foot again the stairs, you realized. Thank fuck, someone had come down to intervene…You opened your eyes slightly, your eyes having to readjust to the darkness all over again.

“Tommy, you stop right fuckin’ there. I’m teachin’ your little _pet_ how it’s gonna go in this house.” There was a warning tone in the sheriff’s voice. It seemed more distant. He’d stood up again. The barrel of the pistol had left your head, to your intense relief. You let out a soft sigh against the damp ground, your muscles relaxing slightly. 

You could see between the sheriff’s legs that the large man with the strange mask and the long, tangled hair was standing at the base of the stairs. It confused you that you were even more relieved to see that it was _him_ who was intervening. You felt much…safer. Because from what you could tell, the old man in the sheriff uniform seemed to be a little bit scared of him, no matter how angry or loud he might have yelled. It seemed like the large man from before could also tell the sheriff was nervous, because he didn’t obey the command. 

He came forward slowly, head lowered and shoulders hulking. 

You could pick out the faint coloring of fabric draped over his brawny arm. The shirt. He tossed it to the side over a workbench as he drew closer, his heavy steps becoming louder and louder. You never thought you’d be relieved to hear something so terrifying in nature. Still, you stayed on the ground, not daring to move. You sucked in a breath and held it as the sheriff yelled again.

“Thomas Brown Hewitt, I said _stop,_ God damn you!” 

_Thomas Brown Hewitt. That’s his name,_ you thought faintly to yourself, still struggling to collect your thoughts due to the pounding in your head. How were you still dizzy from that hit? 

Thomas Brown Hewitt seemed to hesitate momentarily before his gaze darkened and his brows lowered in a somewhat stubborn, determined way. He continued forwards, faster than before, towards you. If the sheriff hadn’t jumped out of the way, there was no doubt in your mind that Thomas would have easily bodied him. 

The larger man ignored any more threats and whining from the sheriff as he gently picked you up off the ground, like you were nothing more than a doll to him, close to being limp in your arms as you blinked in surprise. You feebly wrapped your arms around his shoulders to hold your trembling body closer to him. Once again, you couldn’t help but notice that the older man, scrawny in comparison to Thomas, seemed millions of times more evil, despite looking more normal. No matter how scary Thomas was to you, or how unpredictable he seemed, he wasn’t the evil in the room.

The sheriff was.

_He_ was the danger. 

Even from what little you’d seen of the sheriff’s face as Thomas turned away from him, still holding you close in his arms, you could sense his enraged gaze, burning into your back. Why was this weird old man so fucking mad at you already? What was your crime? Almost dying of heat stroke on an abandoned road before Thomas had been able to intervene? 

Involuntarily, your arms tightened around Thomas as you squeezed your eyes shut and tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your breathing still frantic and your head still light from the blow. 

Quietly, the sheriff’s voice came, seething with obvious fury. “We’ll talk about this later,” he growled. His threatening words were followed by angry, quick footsteps back up the stairs. They were very different from Thomas’. 

You let out a sigh of heavy relief. 

“Thank you,” you breathed out to Thomas softly, as he set you back down on the table. 

He retrieved the shirt he’d thrown on the workbench and brought if back over to you. He pressed it into your lap. You observed it momentarily, noticing the eerie similarities to the shirt he wore under his bloodied, torn apron. You realized it must have been his. 

Setting it down next to your leg, you tried to reach back to undo the zipper that tightened the white, soiled dress so close to your body. It was wildly uncomfortable now and only felt more suffocating with every passing second inside of it. Your shoulder ached with pain and you immediately quit your vain attempts to undo the back of the merciless white dress. 

“Thanks again,” you said again, your voice steadying a little more. There was an awkward silence as he surveyed you. “Uhm. Hate to ask yet _another_ favor from you but…I can’t really reach the back.” You motioned to the back of the dress and turned around so the zipper was facing him. 

You flinched slightly when he touched the small of your back, like he was warning you that he was there. He reached up to take the tag and roughly yanked it down. You started again at the noise and bit back a gasp. You froze up before you could murmur out another “thank you”. Thomas’ hand remained on you bare back for a long moment, dragging up against your softer skin, like he couldn’t help himself from touching you. You shivered under his touch as his rough, heavy fingers stroked up to between your shoulders. 

Slowly, you exhaled, trying to remain calm. Jesus Christ you were going to break out from all the stress you’d gone through today…

_Fuck it, he kept me from probably getting shot in the fuck face back there, so if he wants to touch my back like a weirdo then so what, I guess._

Trying to ignore his warm palm on your spine, you wiggled your arm out of the constricting sleeves. One of your arms hurt real bad. You noticed it’d been bandaged up a bit loosely. You weren’t sure if Thomas did that or if it had been previous to your little roadside wandering. The bandages looked a little old so…probably the ladder. 

Feeling somewhat grateful for your previous decision to move so your back was facing Thomas, you pulled the top of the dress down. Even though you were spared the embarrassment of exposing your chest to him, you still were quick to reach back and snatch the shirt from your size, pulling it up to cover your chest momentarily. He didn’t seem interested in looking. He was still focused on the smooth skin of your back. You pulled the shirt over your head, hoping Thomas would move his hand. He didn’t, but you were already so close to being out of the fucking dress you didn’t care at the moment. You shifted the rest of the dress down, allowing the oversized shirt to fall lower in sync with the skirts. You let out a sigh, leaning your head back when the entirety of the dress fell away from your legs and to the floor in a wretched pile. A rough, large palm still was rubbing up and down your back slowly.

Was he trying to comfort you? Had your distress been that easy to read? 

You finally noticed the ring on your finger. Diamond. At the sight of it, you grew incredibly nauseous and your free hand went to your mouth quickly to hold back any bile you might not be able to control. When you were sure you were stable, you quickly wrenched the ring off your finger and slammed it down on the table, pushing it far away from your body. 

Thomas’ hand fell away from your back. You didn’t bother to check why. There was a still a white lace garter around your leg. You reached under the shirt and promptly tore it off, your breath still quickened with fear and disgust. You discarded the ugly lace on the ground as well, on top of the dress as you quickly drew your legs back up onto the table and wrapped your arms around them, bringing them close to your chest. 

Thomas’ hand had moved to take the ring from the table. You turned to finally face him, readjusting your legs up on the table so they were more laid out instead of close to your chest. 

“Uhm. You can give that to the-the woman who was cleaning the blood off my face…from uh…before. I-I don’t want it,” you eventually choked out. You reached up to brushed the hair from your eyes out of antsy nervousness.

When you took your hand away, there was new blood on it. You looked at it for a long while before realizing that the pistol had probably struck your head just right and reopened a healing wound. You were grateful that you were only able to feel uncomfortable heat from the gash for the moment, instead of more pain. You weren’t sure if you could handle anymore of that endless aching. 

Thomas was still observing the ring, which looked teeny between his giant fingers. He tucked it in his apron pocket and looked back at you as you turned onto your side. You looked up at him from dark, gaunt, and very, very tired eyes. 

“I’m…I’m just going to nap for a bit. I’m tired again,” you said softly. Before he could give any indication of a response, you turned back over again in an attempt to be somewhat comfortable. The shirt rode up higher on your thighs, but you didn’t care. 

Even after Thomas left (signaled once again by heavy footsteps growing distant up the stairs), you weren’t sleeping. 

You were staring up at the meat hooks, glistening from the ceiling, like they were staring right back at you. 


	3. 3.family

The sheriff was wrong. 

By the end of the week, you weren't up on the glistening meathooks that seemed to taunt you every night before you fell asleep. Instead, you were up on the first floor of the house. It'd been a relief to be out of the dreary, flooded basement. You'd began to miss the sunlight and the melancholy drip that kept up throughout the days and nights was becoming more irritating than ever before. 

Thomas had simply carried you up the stairs one day--even though you'd insisted that you were capable of walking. That might have been debatable, considering the way your legs trembled even when he held you off the ground in his arms. To be honest, the idea of your bare feet touching the grimy basement floor wasn't all that hot to you anyways. You knew that your fragility as you recovered from your brush with death wasn't the only reason Thomas' grip tightened around you when you shifted slightly. He didn't trust you all the way. And you didn't take offense to that. To be honest, you still weren't sure what your end goal was here and your motives were still unclear even to you, so you didn't even trust yourself. 

You just ended up being relieved and happy that he had the decency to be grasping at your body in just the right way, at your legs, to pin down his oversized shirt to the back of your knees and ensure it didn't slip up. A part of you told you that his family wouldn't take kindly to being flashed and the idea of that sheriff seeing _any_ part of your body made you sick to your stomach anyways.

You'd only been able to have a glimpse of natural sunlight when you found yourself seated at the dinner table, right next to Thomas. The sun had just finished going down. You were disappointed that you'd missed it, but relieved that you wouldn't be spending another evening all alone in the dark. You stared hard into the bowl before you, trying to ignore the glare from the sheriff that pierced into you like a knife. 

_Jesus fuck, can I catch a fucking break?_ you wondered as the odd family began grace. You shut your eyes and bowed your head out of politeness and fear. The last thing you needed was to piss off that sheriff anymore than you already had by simply existing. Was your crime still being alive or something?

Beneath the table, Thomas' grasp on your wrist tightened. Nervously, you swallowed and hoped that eventually his grip would lessen. Strangely enough, even when forceful, his touch was still comforting to you. Like an anchor while your eyes were shut when you were sitting less than ten feet away from the spiteful old man who'd held a gun to your head. Your breathing steadied slightly.

Thomas was there.

Thomas would protect you, hopefully, as he'd done before. 

Finally, you were able to lift your chin as the woman at the head of the table finished her prayer. They wasted no time passing food around. Gazing upon the dishes being shifted about the dinner table, you wondered if they did this every single night. 

The woman ("momma", you thought you heard her addressed as through not so quiet whispers from the sheriff at her side) is the first to break the silence. 

"I see you've brought your little friend up for supper, Tommy," she said, passing a dish to the sheriff seated near her. She peered at you through her glasses as your fingers trembled slightly under the table. Although cold and scrutinizing and...intensely suspicious at first, she seemed to find no malice upon your tired face. Her gaze softened--seemed more genuine and warm, almost maternal like. "What's your name, honey?" She asked. 

It was somewhat soothing to hear a voice other than the sheriff's. Or at least, another female voice. It made you feel safer, as stupid as it was to believe. There were still seeds of suspicion in the back of your mind, wondering if she was just as bad as the sheriff and just hid it better. But you were reminded of your situation when Thomas's palm pressed tighter to your skin, urging an answer from you--to momma's question.

Better to try to make whatever friends you can here then go along making more possible enemies. 

A bit of a weak smile appeared on your face as you lifted your head a bit higher and tried to look more alert. You cleared your throat. "Uhm," a nervous laugh almost instantly escaped you before your expression shifted into one bearing more concern. "I...I don't really know. I don't remember." 

The words feel heavier being spoken out loud than they do weighing down in your brain, in your thoughts. It really is somewhat terrifying not to be able to recall a single thing about yourself. Its like a hole in your head were the memories should have been--a big, black, cold gaping pit that left you with a sense of hopelessness and dread as well. And even worse? The sense that whatever you'd forgotten would only make you feel worse. The feeling, once again, that you'd suffered something hellish, something truly grievous. 

The sheriff rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Well ain't that a load of-" 

Momma fixed him with a glare, reminiscent of the cold stare she'd rendered you with before. It seemed like it was enough to shut him up quickly. Looks like it'd been a good call to play nice with momma. She clearly had some sort of authority or influence over the sheriff, which made you feel a little bit safer. Still, it took everything you had not to give a little, smug smile. You moved your hand to quickly hide your lips in a fake clearing of your throat when the sheriff's bitter glare shifted onto you again. 

"H-honest," you tried, still wanting to make some attempt at an explanation. "I don't remember anything that happened to me before...uhm..." you went quiet for a moment, hoping you could piece together some of the vague flashes rattling around in your brain. "Before...uhm...Tommy picked me up off the side of the road, I think."

Thomas seemed to lift his head at the sound of his name on your tongue. His dark eyes caught yours and held them for what felt like too long. 

You quickly looked back over to Momma, who was still intently watching you. "Th-this family is very generous for, uhm, letting me stay as long as I have." 

_However long that's been,_ you thought off to the side. It was impossible to tell due to the lack of windows in the basement and your case of amnesia. It felt like awhile though, and you figured it couldn't hurt to offer Momma your gratitude, even if the sheriff seemed to scoff and grumble again at the gesture. The older man on the other side of the table didn't seem to care--he was too focused on the plate in front of him. 

Her response surprised you. And for some reason, it made your blood run cold. 

She laughed. "Oh honey, you practically are family. Tommy likes you a whole lot, I'm sure you've noticed...and he don't take kindly to company usually." Her eyes shifted over to Tommy--who you finally realized must have been her son. His dark eyes were lowered upon the plate in front of him again. "He's a shy boy." 

Thomas' fingers pushed further down past your wrist. You dared not to move it as his rough, scarred fingers intertwined with yours. It was surprisingly affectionate gesture in comparison to the death grip treatment he'd been giving your aching, now bruised wrist. Still, your trembling returned. 

You shakily nodded, trying not to let it show. "M-mhm," you managed. "H-He's been very kind to me." 

Momma smiled warmly at you. "Well I'm glad to hear that." She gestured at the bowl that had been placed in front of you sometime during the conversation. "Don't be shy, go 'head and dig in." 

You nodded. It was still hard to eat under the scrutinizing gazes of the two other men at the table. You found yourself edging closer to Thomas, close enough to feel the warmth of his body against yours. It was...safer to be closer to him and you were able to eat a little before realizing how hungry you actually were. Previously, you'd ignored the burning feeling and it had just gone away. Now it was back, and gnawing at your insides. Thomas had only managed to get you scraps of bread or meat here and there while you'd been down in the basement. 

Leaving to get some scraps for you was the only time you'd been left alone down there after the incident with the sheriff. It seemed like Thomas wasn't too fond of the idea of the sheriff sneaking back down there when you were on your own and for good reason. You're not fond of the idea either, so you'd grown somewhat used to his dark gaze always on you. You'd grown used to the blood on his hands and his shirt, the reek of iron and musk on his body and the rough leather mask around his jaw and mouth. 

Down there, you'd often thought yourself thinking of when the sheriff had referred to you as Thomas' "pet". The words had stung, bit deep and hard, just as he'd meant them to. But now you could only find some irony and amusement in Thomas' guard dog like behavior when it came to you. 

Thomas' gave your hand a bit of a squeeze. You didn't have a problem with him continuing to hold onto it like you were about to slip away forever. You only needed one hand to eat anyways. The meat had an odd taste to it, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant and you were so hungry you couldn't really be picky. You're not about to complain--its the most substance you've gotten in awhile.

A week of not eating well certainly wasn't what had taken this toll on your body, however--you were well aware of that. The constant exhaustion and lurking fear and fragile, fried nerves seemed to go deeper than the brush with heat stroke. Once again, you felt there was something else to blame. Something before from the life you couldn't remember. Something bad. Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared down into the last of the broth in your bowl. 

Maybe it was good your brain had done you the honor of locking away everything that had happened to you before Thomas. 

It was a weird new start, with this weird family, but you'd take it. 

You almost hated that you were so willing to accept that you'd be staying with this family. Or...what had Momma said earlier? Be "apart" of it? Whatever that meant (you definitely knew but you didn't want to think about it at the moment). 

And once again you were at war with yourself. 


	4. murderer

The next few dinners went okay as far as you could tell. You weren't the best at reading the family, but you were assuming that at least Momma was warming up to you more. She didn't seem nearly as...awful as the Sheriff or the other man without legs. 

Before the second dinner, Momma had even intercepted Thomas (who was leading you by the hand up the stairs) and managed to pry you away from him long enough to get you in her own room. It made you insanely nervous to once again be alone with one of Thomas' family members, considering what had happened last time you were alone in a room with someone that wasn't him. But she had good intentions and your muscles relaxed as she continued to fuss over you. Momma insisted that you change out of Thomas' old shirt and into something more proper and "lady like". One of her older dresses from her youth seemed to fit you just fine and it was oddly relieving to be wearing something decent again. Thomas' shirt had been comfortable, but it really wasn't ideal to move in with nothing underneath. 

"Aw, now don't you look just lovely?" 

You cast a glance back at her, accompanied with a soft smile and a nod. "Thank you," you said quietly as she gave your arm an affectionate, motherly squeeze and brushed passed you. 

Momma and Thomas seemed to be the only two people in the family that genuinely liked you--or at least cared about your wellbeing. You realized that she treated you a lot like a daughter, once even telling you that she'd always wanted one. It was an awkward feeling at first, when you thought too hard about it and took into account Thomas' affections towards you. It was weird to have her treat you like her daughter when her son was very clearly into you. But then you realized she meant more of...a daughter _in-law_. Like married to Thomas. 

You'd always had an idea of why she was suddenly so supportive of you--of the idea of Thomas finally finding someone that he liked. This family mattered a lot to her and it showed. And that meant she wanted it to continue. She mentioned that to you offhandedly sometimes.

A newer pressure came onto your shoulders that made you unable to even look Thomas in the eyes anymore. When he touched you it made you jumpy--it made you nervous. His fingertips on your skin suddenly felt foreign and scary and unpredictable. Even innocent gestures, like holding your hand or touching your back was enough to put you on edge. And it only got worse as time went on.

Thomas never would make a move on you, thank God. As big and aggressive as he was, and as unpredictable as he could be, you knew for sure he'd never _do_ anything to you. You wondered if he even knew how. His obvious inexperience and shyness towards any inherent sexual advances make you think he doesn't. 

But you weren't deaf to the Sheriff's--Hoyt's-- comments while you followed Thomas around the house like a lost lamb. It's awkward having to hear whatever vulgar thing he has to say next, especially with Thomas only inches from you. But you stay close to him anyways for the sake of not being alone and your own safety. Your blood still runs cold when you see Hoyt. You still remember the feeling of the gun striking your head and you'll never forget. 

Still, you knew you were doing well with Momma. As long as either she or Thomas were with you, Hoyt couldn't lay a finger on you. Obviously, that doesn't stop the insults and the verbal attacks, but at least you can tune those out. It's the usual. Calling you a whore, telling Momma you're not worth it, telling Thomas he has poor taste in women right in front of you. It used to bite at you more, but it was starting to become just barely tolerable. If it got too much, Momma tended to step in and yell. Thomas didn't need to say anything at all. A quick jerk of his head or his hand in Hoyt's direction and the old dirtbag shut up pretty fucking quick. 

Luckily, Hoyt was the worst you had to deal with. That Monty guy without the legs didn't really seem to care about you or take sides, instead opting for a stance of irritating neutrality. A small part of you realized that it was probably for the better--if the entire family was with you and against Hoyt, there was no telling what that could drive him to do. You figured it certainly wouldn't be backing down. Maybe something more along the lines of murder. 

You tried to avoid him, not really wanting to shove the fact that Thomas and Momma would defend you if he got too nasty down his throat anymore than it obviously was. It obviously pissed him off to see the head of the family and the strongest member of the family warming up to 'no good fucking slutty trash". But still, there were times when you couldn't avoid him. Sometimes it was like he would actively seek you out, just to make you uncomfortable and torment you a little bit more.

One day, Thomas had left you to work in the kitchen with Momma--a rare occasion. Thomas rarely left your side, so whenever he deviated from this you knew something important was happening. 

Hoyt was hanging around the doorway, watching you through squinting, narrowed eyes. As usual, a feeling of uneasiness settled upon you, just by being near him. Your fingers arched slightly as you worked at the tiles on the floor with the sponge, cleaning off specks of whatever and grime. As naturally as you could, you tried to change position in the kitchen so your back wasn't facing him, and was instead facing a wall. Momma was busy sifting through the harvest from the garden outside. She hadn't moved to come between you and Hoyt, so you figured that meant he wasn't going to get any closer. You weren't sure if that was relieving to know or if you should have been afraid of something worse than that happening. 

You could barely hide your cringe when he spoke.

"Tommy better gettem all or you're gonna make up for it, darling," he said casually, arms crossed over his chest as he stared outside a window. 

You knew far better than to respond and feed fuel to the fire. Your lips tightened into a thin line as you tried to focus on the spaces between the tile and not the old man who would shoot you point blank in the face if given the opportunity. 

Momma scoffed. "'Course he will. He's a good boy and he works hard and he does his job well." 

"Not if the little whore distracts him," came Hoyt's biting response. 

You couldn't hide the obvious bristle in your posture on the floor, nor the freezing of your hand on the floor and the blood in your veins. Still, you bit your tongue, and then the inside of your cheek, drawing in a slow breath. You're not about to fuck with Hoyt. You're not about to take the bait. You. Know. Better. 

Luckily, your anger seemed to find a home in Momma instead. She slammed her knife down, whirling around to face him. "Now don't you go using that language in my house," she warned. 

You couldn't help but glance up briefly to gauge Hoyt's reaction. Disappointment gnawed at you when his expression remained the same as before--relaxed and all calm, maybe just an aura of smugness. He shrugged. "She ain't given us a name to call her. Gotta call her somethin', don't we?" 

Dismissively, Momma shook her head. "Tommy will do just fine. He's got a family to provide for and another member in it don't change a damn thing." She paused for a moment, picking up the knife. "He's got another mouth t'feed now. He's gonna work even harder." 

Your brow furrowed. You knew when they referred to his work it was implying some sort of hunting. At least, that's what you inferred from context clues alone--from the blood that covered his hands, and the chainsaw, and the way his breath fell heavy from his scarred lips when he came back to the house. Taking the chainsaw into account, you weren't sure what type of game he was hunting. You'd known it was what was ending up in every night's dinner, but you hadn't been much to pry about what it was. You'd just been grateful you were getting fed.

But now with curiosity burning at you, you couldn't help but let the question fall from your lips. "What's he hunting?" 

It seemed like Hoyt had been waiting for you to say something along those lines. His quiet, smug smirk broadened into a smile. He fixed you with his cold, bitter gaze. "Your kind," he told you, venom evident in his voice. 

You couldn't help but freeze up, blinking in shock as you tried to process what he had just said, hoping you were just hearing things, hoping he didn't mean...Momma's gaze was on you now. You looked up at her, back over your shoulder, fingers pressing harder into the sponge on the ground. Her look only betrayed a sense of grimness and...a strange sort of guilt and sorrow. It was there for just a moment before it's gone. Had you looked up a second later, you would have definitely missed it. Realizing you had seen, she let out a soft sigh, her voice suddenly quiet.

"This town's all dried up, dear. You must understand that we have to keep food on our table somehow." 

You wished you had just tuned them out. You wished you had just focused on the spaces between the tiles like you'd told yourself too earlier. You wished you'd never spoken at all. You couldn't hide the horror on your blanching face nor the tremble in your fingers as you turned your head back to stare down at the floor.

_The spaces between the tiles. Just look at the spaces in between the tiles._

* * *

After a couple of hours, nightfall arrived. The sun had began to set earlier with the passage of days and darkness settled somewhat quickly. For a brief moment, you'd forgotten why Thomas was out in the first place and had briefly worried for his wellbeing. It always made you nervous when he returned late.

The front door slammed noisily open. 

Your fingertips brushed up against the edge of the doorframe as you peeked out. Thomas walked past--As usual, you wouldn't directly look at him. You quickly dropped your gaze. Something you instantly regretted. You thought you saw something red. You turned away entirely, squeezing your eyes shut, a hand racing to cover your mouth. A low grunt came from him. You didn't want to turn around and risk a better look. He's carrying something. You only saw a flash of it, but you still knew what it was and you absolutely could _not_ look again.

Thomas wouldn't budge. Momma was still and you were sure Hoyt was now hear too, wanting to see your reaction. You took in a shaking breath. Straightening up, you turned back around, your gaze shifted even lower--to the floor instead. It wasn't much better. You could see fresh blood stains on the floor near Thomas. You could see the gore on his shoes. 

Quietly, you spoke, surprised your voice wasn't breaking. "I need to use the bathroom. I'll be back in a second." 

Hoyt's gaze burned into you as you brushed past. Thomas' too. Only when you turned the corner were you relieved of the pressure. And you changed courses away from the bathroom down the hall. You kept walking straight past, numbness spreading all through you. 

You left out the front door, which was still ajar from Thomas shouldering it open. Because his hands were full. Obviously. You once again made the mistake of lifting your eyes from the floor. There was a blood streak on the front door in the shape of a smearing handprint, like someone had been desperately trying to escape. A feeling of intense nausea rose up your throat as you kept walking. You didn't close the door. You didn't dare turn back to close that fucking door.

It's dark out still. No moon tonight and stars faint. No streetlights, obviously, reminding you that you're out in the middle of no where. You could barely see in front of you, but you still pushed on. You figured if you just kept going in a straight line you'd end up somewhere else. No rush. There's no where really to go, you know that. No where.

And it's oddly comforting. Like walking in the void. 

And you continued on for a long, long time. The dirt road seemed so different when there was no blazing, merciless sun beating down on you. 

You stopped for a moment to look up. Still no moon. Still only faint blips of stars far out there. And you made the mistake of turning back around, just to look at the towering, imposing outline of the Hewitt residence in the distance. And in font of it was a familiar silhouette. 

Thomas. 

Like clockwork, you froze in place. Not petrified. Not shaking with terror. Not fearing what would happen next. You're just. Standing there. Waiting for what might be your death, but you're not scared of that. Because you don't know. You don't know what's going to happen when he finally reaches you. It doesn't look like he's coming to kill you. You breathe a soft sigh of relief when you realized there was no chainsaw in his hand. 

He's not here to kill you. He's here to bring you back. There's only one thing to go back to. 

Slowly, Thomas drew closer, like even he's not sure if you're going to try to bolt. You honestly don't know either. It's like your mind is separated from your body, out somewhere with those distant, distant stars in the cold of space. 

He comes to a stop in front of you. When you remain still, he gently reaches out towards you. Your eyes follow his hand. You think he might try and grab your wrist again, all harsh and cruel and unpredictable like he used to. But Thomas reached for your hand instead, clumsy, thick fingers slowly wrapping around yours. It seems like he was purposefully trying to be gentle, the way he held your hand, even though he could have easily broken all the bones in it with a tight squeeze if he wanted to. 

_He doesn't though,_ you reassure yourself, almost immediately shooting down the intrusive thoughts in your head. _He doesn't want to do that._

You regard him blankly as he holds your hand for another few seconds. Is he easing you along this process? Does he have some inkling of an idea to as how fragile you are physically and mentally at the moment? Thomas gave you a light tug, starting to pull you back in the direction of the house. 

And for the briefest of moments, you resisted. You leaned back, pulling against him slightly. 

But with another firmer tug, suggesting his wearing patience, you gave into his will. You stumbled after him as his calloused fingers tightened around yours. They were still sticky and stained with fresh blood. 

The urge to escape possessed you once again and you suddenly untangled your fingers from his, lurching backwards. He stops and turns back towards you, tension settling into his muscles. 

_Murderer_.

Even in the darkness, you can feel his dark eyes on you. You took another step back, tears gathering into your eyes. 

_Murderer_. 

The voice is growing louder.

"I can't," you choked out, your voice breaking with tears. "I _can't_." 

Warmth tracked down your cheeks and you felt light headed all over again. Your feet felt glued to the ground. Thomas approached you again. You didn't move, not because you didn't want to (by God, you _did_ ) but because you couldn't. Frozen on your feet once more as Thomas leaned closer to you. His hands swept under your knees and pushed up against your back, taking you up into his brawny arms effortlessly. You cried even harder, silently, into his chest. 

There's blood on that too. There's no escaping all the blood. 

Between the darkness and your spinning head, you were beyond disoriented. One moment you had your eyes shut, sobbing into Thomas, and the next you were opening them and the porch lights of the house were now visible. A sense of dread filled you upon seeing it. Well...not the _house_ per se. More like the silhouette of Hoyt in the window, watching. 

As Thomas stepped up the porch, the wood creaking under his weight, Hoyt wasted no time racing to the door. Thomas shouldered it open--and him--out of the way. 

Yelling, Hoyt followed. "Tommy, you bring that stupid fucking bitch here right now! You need to punish her for runnin' off like that! Told ya she would! But do ya listen to me? No you just-"

If you'd been completely mentally there in that moment, you would have enjoyed the way Thomas continued to brush past Hoyt and ignore him completely. Still, you could feel his fingers tightening into your flesh, like he was scared Hoyt would suddenly try to take you and make good on his threats himself. You tried to lean even closer into his chest, your arms wrapping up around Thomas' neck. 

Unfortunately, Hoyt seemed to assume that Thomas' intentions were worse than what he was suggesting. He seemed to switch gears completely, wanting only to root for your misery. 

"You fucking teach her, Tommy!" he practically howled, making the ringing in your ears even worse than before. "You teach her a lesson 'bout what happens when you try to _fuck_ this family! Make her _fucking_ hurt!" 

You glanced up to Thomas' face, trying to read whatever expression was on his face. You couldn't find one. He wouldn't look back down at you. His fingers only seemed to grip you tighter and the idea that perhaps the action wasn't to protect you from Hoyt ran through your mind. 

You hoped to God he wasn't listening. 


	5. stay

Nervously, your fingers clenched at the front of Thomas' shirt. You'd only started to become more nervous when he didn't head towards the basement stairs. Instead, he headed for the _other_ set of stairs. The ones you'd never gone up. You can't stop the soft whimpers coming from you as tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes and you begin to start shaking. 

You want to say his name. You want to ask him where he's taking to you--what...what he's going to do to you. You want to explain yourself and try to get out of this. You want to apologize. But you do none of that. Your words remain caught in your closing throat and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting to look at those stairs anymore. Not wanting to see where they lead. Where he was taking you. 

A door creaks open and you can't help but look up and peek. From what little you catch a glimpse of before ducking your head again--it a room, one you've never been in before, obviously. Dark. Modest. Plain. Almost untouched because its owner is always off somewhere else. Hunting or slaughtering or tending to meat hooks and traps. 

It's his. 

There's not much of an opportunity to prepare yourself before he throws you down onto the bed. You want to let the shock render you frozen as you sink into mattress with a sort of grim finality and he draws closer. But instead, a rush of adrenaline and pure terror urges you up to your hands and knees. Quickly, you crawled to the other side of the bed, so the wall was at your back. Chest moving quickly with every shallow breath, you watched him with wide, terrified eyes and your legs trembled. 

You weren't normally this scared of him. How could you be? Even with those dark eyes and that permanent sort of angry furrow in his brow, he'd never seemed dangerous to you before. But now he was actually _glaring_ at you and fuck it didn't feel good. Your heart practically dropped out of your chest when you saw his massive hands curled into fists. He wasn't moving but that didn't make you feel any safer. If anything, it felt like he was thinking very, _very_ hard about what he was going to do next. 

You couldn't take the pressure of his dark glare anymore. Tears in your eyes, you stammered out soft pleas. "Please don't be mad at me, Tommy," came your shaking whisper. "Please don't be mad." You took a risk--you crawled closer to him, back across the bed. 

To your relief, some of the rage induced stiffness seemed to leave him. You thought you saw his hands unclench slightly. A soft huff of air came through his mask. Yes. There it was. His fingers fell away from the fist. You nodded shakily, almost like you were trying more to encourage yourself than him to keep going. 

"You wouldn't...d-do to me what you...what you do to those other people, right?" you eventually found the nerve to ask. You bit the inside of your cheek anxiously. 

Thomas continued to stare down at you. And then slowly, barely--he shook his head. The first sort of semblance of communication he's ever offered you. You released a bated breath you hadn't known you were holding. Relief swept over you. 

Cautiously still, in case he was malicious enough to lie in order to get you to let your guard down, you crept closer to the other side of the bed. You didn't dare try to get off the mattress. Instead, you reached a hand out for him, and then your other arm. Thomas came closer to you, filling in the space between your arms as your hands came to rest upon his back. One of his large, rough hands stroked over the top of your hair slowly, before coming to the back of your head and pushing your face closer into his chest. He dropped his head to rest his chin on you. You hadn't been aware that you were still crying until you felt your tears soak into his shirt beneath your cheek. A soft sniffle escaped you.

"He scares me, Tommy," you said. "The sheriff. I think if you weren't around to protect me...he'd have done something terrible to me by now. He hates me. He hates that _you_ like me." A shudder passed through your body when you remembered the eagerness in the sheriff's voice when calling upon Thomas to punish you for leaving the house. 

Thomas pushed up against you slightly. His hands fall away from you and you realize he's getting onto the mattress with you. Quickly, you give him his space, sitting along his side as he settles onto the sheets with a soft grunt. You barely had time to recuperate before his arms were back around you again, pulling you down onto him again. 

You turned your head so your cheek was pressed to his chest again. You could hear his heart beat. Slow. Steady. Strong. So different from yours. His scarred fingers stroke over your skin slightly as his eyes half shut. 

"But you don't care do you?" you whispered out. 

Your head tilts up to look at his face. He's looking back at you. You're surprised to find...an expression on his face. At least a semblance of one. A sort of cold determination that you'd never seen before. 

You'd never know because he'd never tell you, but truth be told, finally disobeying the man who called him worthless and was equally degrading to him, especially if it earned your favor this easily pleased Thomas. He liked having something of his own--other than the chainsaw. He liked having something worth protecting. It made him feel like he was more than just a butcher. It was a refreshing feeling, as for years that's all he ever believed himself to be. Only capable of chopping the bones of the dead, only capable of slaughter. Being capable of...well...taking care of someone was something new. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Thomas' shirt as your head shifted back down to a more comfortable position. Thomas scared you sometimes--hell, your legs were still shaking slightly--but he was the best you were ever going to get in this situation. Rather him than Hoyt. Rather him than anyone else. 

As Thomas' arms tightened around you, for the first time, you thought...maybe it would be so bad. Staying his. Being his. He was your protector. He was strong. 

Momma's pressure on you to want him like he wanted you didn't seem as...unreasonable and scary as you'd thought previously. 

As your eyelids began to shut, you could only come to the realization that in order to survive you needed him. But all those thoughts stayed in your head. You were too terrified to say it out loud. It had to stay in your already addled, unwell brain, where thoughts like those belonged. 

You wondered, as you drifted, if this was it. If this was all you were going to get for wandering away--for trying to get away from Thomas. 

But in the morning, when you awoke, you found you were back down in the basement, tied to a chair, facing three bodies that were hung upon the same meathooks that had once threatened you instead. Apparently you weren't above punishment like you'd hoped, no matter how much Thomas might have liked you. He still wanted you to know your place, you realized. 

He still wanted you to know exactly what would happen if you tried to escape again. 

Quickly, you became sick to your stomach, watching the blood drip and drain from mutilated bodies into waiting buckets and basin. You quickly turned your head away, shutting your eyes tightly in an attempt to settle yourself. 

Thomas was certainly the hard worker his family had described him as. 

It was only a matter of time before Thomas himself made an appearance. You squinted to make out the shape of the bloodied chainsaw gripped in one of his hands. He makes it look like a toy next to his giant arms and body. For a moment, you fear that it's for you as seems to make a beeline towards you. Before you can even muster up a cry for your life, he simply continues on past you, like your not even there. But he still raises the chainsaw...was there someone else down here?--oh. _Oh._

He doesn't look back to make sure your eyes are on him. He already feels your horrified stare on him. Thomas starts the chainsaw. And at first you're frozen, unable to look away, unable to shut your eyes. The echoing in the basement makes the noise inescapable and booming and all consuming. Your nausea grew worse with the increasing amount of gore. Biting back a sob, you turned your head to the side and shut your eyes tightly.

It hadn't even been ten seconds before you felt a hot, wet hand grip your chin tightly. The sharp, smell of iron stings your nose as you open your teary eyes. Thomas jerked your head back so you were once again looking forward as you sobbed. Blood smeared fingerprints marked your jaw and chin and lips as he slowly took his hand away. When you went to turn your head away again, a frustrated growl comes from him and he takes your chin tightly once again. 

"Thomas, please," you beg, your brows contorting as you tried to hold back yet another sob. 

It doesn't work. 

He jerks your head back to its original position and something tells you that if you try to look away again he'll make you hurt worse. Your tears make your vision blurry--enough to somewhat censor the bloodbath before you. It would have to do. 

Thomas made you watch as he butchered the last of the bodies. Grinding bones, breaking them, tearing flesh and cutting through muscles and tendons. Spilling innards and blood. You don't beg him again. You don't speak. It's not like he'd be able to hear you over the reanimated chainsaw in his stained hands anyways. 

You knew that he wanted you to see for a reason. He wanted you to see what would happen if you tried to run. If you chose the unknown over him and his family again. 

You would have thrown up if you could during the gruesome, long process. He'd drawn it out purposefully, it seemed, a special show just for you. All you could manage was pure bile a couple of times before a sort of exhaustion fell over you, and all you could do was sit there limp in the chair, bound only by rope, your head hanging as tired tears rolled down your cheeks, tracking through the drying bloody fingerprints Thomas had left upon your skin. 

The meat hooks were empty now. 

Slowly, Thomas approaches you, his hands somehow smeared with even more blood and gore, fresh all the way up to his elbows. He lifted your chin as you cried harder, shaking under his touch. Softly, one of his hands ran over your face, streaking more blood along your cheeks. His thick fingers pushed through your hair before he suddenly grabbed a handful of it and jerked your head back. One of his thumbs brushed over your bottom lip, pushing it down slightly. Then, roughly, he shoved one of his fingers into your mouth, between your lips. You jerked slightly but dared not to bite down. You almost gagged when the taste of the blood settled to the back of your throat and to your relief, Thomas pulled his finger from your lips. Ice seems to rush through your veins as you breathe rapidly. It's clean, glistening with your saliva. You sigh and your brows draw together in another bit back sob, but you don't drop your head again, scared he'll repeat the vulgar action. 

Almost gently, Thomas's palm brushed over your cheek, wiping away some of your saliva and blood, cleaning at the corner of your lips. And he cups your cheek for a moment in his hand, staring down at you. You almost lean into the curve of his palm before it's gone and he's suddenly tearing the ropes off from your arms. You lean forwards slightly, thinking he's going to let you up. Thinking that it's finally over.

You're wrong, of course. 

He shoved a heavy, brutish hand against your chest, pushing you back down into the chair, hard enough to push the air from your lungs. You gasped sharply, biting back a cry of pain. Your shoulder seemed to automatically hunch and you ducked your head in some attempt to look as small and nonthreatening and obedient as possible. Maybe he'd stop being so cruel then. 

You began to tremble again as he growled out one word in a deep voice, raspy from disuse. 

**"Stay."**


	6. i love you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw

And you did.

There's still no ropes binding you to the chair. No nails through your palms. No clamps around your wrists. There's no incentive. No special prize to be won for being good for him, for obeying him. It's your life at stake, you feel, as you sit trembling in that fucking chair.

You haven't even caught any glimpse of Thomas since he'd last given you the command to _stay_. 

You perked up when you heard the sliding metal basement door grind open. You craned your neck, turned your head almost completely around, straining just to stare intently at the stairs, waiting for him to come down. You cocked your head, waiting to hear the footsteps. His footsteps. But they don't sound and you almost feel...disappointed. Instead, you hear the sound of bodies thumping, of bodies rolling down those stairs. 

It's three people. 

You feel your heart drop lower when they all remain motionless. More dead bodies? Was he planning on making you sit there and watch them rot as part of the punishment? But then you heard one of them moan, you noticed the slight movements in all of their chests. One woman, two men. For a moment, you wanted to breathe a sigh of relief.

_They're alive._

And then the dread weighs back down on you, increased by tenfold.

_They're. Alive._

They're still breathing, there's still blood pumping through their veins and they have no fucking idea what's in store for them. But you do. You know what he's going to do. He's going to hunt them fucking down and he's going to rip them to pieces and he's going to make you watch. Just to really make sure you got the message of what happened to people who ran from him.

There is no escape.

You want to call for him. You wanted to yell for Thomas and tell him you get it, you get it, _okay!?_ You understand and you're never going to leave again, you're never going to run from him again. Just no more blood, no more gore. You can't stand to watch anymore, you think. You think you'll go mad if you have to witness anymore of the slaughter. 

You're even more horrified when the three new victims start stirring. You realize they're waking up and your hands tighten into fists as you fought back the nausea building in your stomach. Had Tommy meant for them to stay unconscious longer? This didn't seem right at all... Your brow creased with worry as one of them, a dark haired man, starts to rise to his hands and knees. The rope that had been around his wrists had torn off during his fall down the flight of stairs.

_Oh no. Oh no. Oh no._

He coughed and reached over to nudge the woman next to him and then over to the man laying a little further past her. Watching him start to undo the other bindings on his feet, your heart had began to pound so loud in your chest that you felt like you couldn't even hear what he was saying. You could only sit there, dumbly, watching him mouth words that didn't process. He was getting up. He was untying the others. Seemed like he was having some difficulty getting through the knot on the last one.

Helplessly, he looks over at you. You quickly shake your head and look away. He looks angry. Good. If he's angry he won't try to move you. He won't try to help you or "save" you. Because if he tries you're sure it's going to be what kills you. 

You stiffened in the chair, falling even stiller than before--if that was even possible. Statue like, you watched the three people tend to each other. A sort of pity came over you when you caught a glimpse of a deep, _deep_ wound in the woman's side. And God...God she looked so fucking scared. So did the man nearest to her, the one that wasn't the dark haired one. And then the man with the dark hair turns. Turns to look directly at you again and you felt like you were freezing over. The pity gnawing at your chest quickly changed to an icy fear as he approached you.

He asks a question.

One that you still can't hear because it's like everything has slowed down and nothing makes sense and you can't do anything to stop it. You can't hear because of the blood pounding in your ears and your skull. You shut your eyes, your breathing beginning to quake. When you peeked again, he was still coming closer, reaching out. You shrunk back against the chair in response, not wanting his touch. As he came closer, his mouth moved more. And you caught just the edge of some of his words.

"-ou okay?" 

You didn't know if you were allowed to speak and respond. You didn't want to find out. Better safe than sorry.

He tries again. "Hey? Hey! _Hello?_ Let's _go._ That maniac's gonna come back down any minute!" 

Silently, you remain in the chair motionless. The dark haired man seemed to grow impatient with your antics and cursed loudly before lunging at you and grabbing you by your arms. Your fingers wrap around the seat of it and you suddenly wished there _were_ ropes binding you there. You want to scream but your world seems to still be spinning. The dark haired man pulled you up to your feet. Panicking, you attempted to worm out of his grip and get back into the chair.

The woman is at the foot of the stairs. She calls, "Come _on_ , just leave her!"

The man wrangling you ignores her. You don't know if your rejection had stung his ego and he was doing this out of spite and pride, or if he genuinely thinks he's helping you. Savior complex much...

You consider screaming as he wrestles you from the chair. His two companions have already started back up the steps. You begin to cry as he drags you towards them as well. Halfway up, you stick out a shaking arm to grab at the wall, wedging your toes up into one of the stairs to try and yank back. All that happens is you end up nearly bashing your face into the stairs as the man continues to drag you up them. You don't try to bite back the sobs or cries anymore as you reach the top of the stairs. 

"No, no, no," you finally manage to choke out. "I can't leave. I can't leave. I'll die if I do." You're desperate but apparently its not enough to sell him. Fuck, if only he would _let go_. 

He fixes you with a cold glare. "You'll fucking die if you don't. You see that big motherfucker? You're as good as dead if you don't _move your ass now_." 

You won't budge. He lets out a frustrated growl and you're hoping that you've done it, that you've finally pissed him off enough for him to give up and leave and save himself. Apparently not. Instead, he seems to go to tackle you, grabbing you around the waist and throwing you up over his shoulder with wiry strength you didn't know he had. Between the limp he's got going and the bruises on his head, it's kind of impressive that he's carrying you this straight. 

And then you hear it.

Blood curling screaming.

You can't see because you're hauled over his shoulder, but you can _hear_. You can hear the frantic footsteps of desperate, running people, scattering, looking for any way out of this hellhole. You hold your breath as the man carrying you limps faster, towards what you assume is probably the front door. You flinch violently over his shoulder when you hear the sound of a shotgun being fired. Hoyt's involved now. He's howling curses and insults at them.

_This won't end well for anyone_ , is the only thought that crosses your dazed mind. 

The man holding you stumbles, trying to avoid something. Hoyt, you think. Panic chases the fog from your brain. Adrenaline courses through your veins as you begin to struggle, _hard,_ against your captor's grip. 

" _Tommy!_ " you shrieked out, practically in tears as your nails dig into the back of the man carrying you.

A sob escapes you as the man readjusts his grip on you, undoing all the work your struggling had done. Frustration filled you. Why couldn't he just put you down and leave you alone?! You weren't supposed to move. You _weren't supposed to **move**. _You hang your head, beginning to give up as your hands fall still over his lean, bloodied back. 

And then you hear heavy, familiar footsteps. Somehow relief and pure terror floods your system at the same time. The confusion leaves you frozen on the man's shoulder as he gets farther and farther away from the basement door. The screaming of his companions feels so distant to you know. All you can manage to do is focus on the sound of footsteps--the sound of _his_ footsteps. Was he coming to kill you or take you back? 

You flinch and duck your head as Thomas suddenly bursts through an entire wall, sending planks of broken wood and splinters flying every where. You're lucky none of them make a home in your skin. Still, you bring your hands up to shield your face, coughing as the man carrying you ran even faster. But you know he's not going to make it. He's too close to Thomas. And his chainsaw is already going. Absolutely no chance now. 

The man carrying you seems to fold over in half, dropping you in the process. As you hit the ground, you can still hear the chainsaw tearing mercilessly through tendons and flesh and finally--bone. You realize that he hasn't folded over--one of his legs is gone. The blood sprays, hitting you in the cheek as he howls in pain. Your head was still spinning from hitting the ground as you crawled closer to hug up against the wall. Everything seemed to fade into the background again, muffled and cloudy and oh so hazy. Shaking, you drew your own legs close to your body, trying to make yourself as small as possible as you ducked your head. 

The one thing that doesn't quite fade into the background with the screaming and crying and gore is the sound of the chainsaw. 

That's still loud and clear in your ringing ears. 

And that's all you need to hear to know exactly what's happening. You wonder if you will meet a similar fate once he's finished with them. His footsteps are heavy past you as he moves on to pursue any stragglers. You don't bother looking up. You stay perfectly still, some part of you begging, _praying,_ that your stillness now will make up for your disobedience. A pit of dark bitterness in your chest made you almost smug, knowing that the man who had dragged you away from the basement in the first place was now very much dead. Would you at least get the chance to explain yourself to Thomas? Will he listen to reason? To you? 

None of them make it out.

You know because the ringing in your ears has long subsided and you seem to be back in your body again and the house is dead silent. Slowly, you lift your head from your hands, shifting slightly to cast a quick glance down the hall. He's coming towards you--slow and intimidating as all hell. You think for a second that if you're quick enough, you might be able to get a head start and...no. You shoot down the idea of running very, very quickly. It'll just make things worse. Your eyes dart to the chainsaw gripped in a single fist, sleeping and quiet for now, but dripping and stained with fresh blood. Yours could very well be added to the blade and the thought makes your trembling worsen considerably. 

Eventually, he comes to a stop, a good few feet away from you. Still, he seems to tower over you menacingly, looking beyond furious. You can see the strain of frustration in his brows and the cold rage in his dark eyes. You turned over more, very slowly, so that you were on your hands and knees. You weren't sure what he wanted. God knows he wouldn't speak to you. And you knew if you made a wrong move it'd be your head on the block next. 

Barely able to breathe, you crawled over towards him, keeping your eyes trained to the floor. A long time ago, you think some part of you would have reeled in disgust at the idea of doing something as degrading as this. But that part of you had died a long time ago. It wasn't about shame or pride or whatever the fuck anymore, it was just about making it out alive. And...you hated that he was angry at you. It made you feel horrible inside. Like...you genuinely felt bad. Which was ridiculous of course--he was an actual fucking murderer so you didn't know why his own disappointment in you stung as bad as it did. 

He hasn't lifted the chainsaw yet. You look at up at him, tears in your eyes. You wondered once again.

_Will he listen to me?_

Worth a shot. 

"I-I swear I didn't want to leave. I...I wasn't _trying_ to either." You immediately begin to stumble over your words out of nervousness. You gestured a shaking hand towards the mangled mess left of the man that had stolen you from the basement. "He took me, Tommy, he was gonna take me away from you. I-I couldn't stop him he just...he just...grabbed me and...and..." Your hands had found his leg at some point as you began to plead for your life, unable to blink back the tears. " _Please_ , Tommy..." 

His expression didn't falter. Not one bit. Not even as you sobbed, clinging to him. 

You flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as the blade of the chainsaw suddenly came close to your face. Your blood ran like ice in your veins as your heart pounded so hard in your chest you thought you were going to faint. Thomas reached down with his free hand, still stained with blood, drawing it roughly over your cheek. His palm and the drag of his fingers was strangely comforting against your skin for the briefest of moments. You winced as he suddenly pressed your face to the side of the chainsaw blade with a short, jerking motion.

You realize.

_A warning._

You remained still there for a few, long second. Something that isn't quite you seems to possess your body and you're suddenly watching from the outside again. Familiar fog drowns your mind. A terrifying flash of desire crosses over you as your hands felt slowly up the blade, fingers dragging silver trails through the sticky blood. Your breath holds in your throat. Now or never. Looking up at him, you lean towards the chainsaw and slowly draw your tongue along the chain. The taste of blood and old gore and metal is enough to make you want to gag, but it was worth it.

Because all the sudden the rage is gone from Thomas' eyes. And it's been replaced by something probably much more dangerous. 

Want. 

His hand moved from your face up into your hair, gripping it hard and jerking your head back momentarily. A soft grunt escaped you and the chainsaw slipped from your hands. He's dropped it. _Holy fucking shit_. Thomas leans down, practically kneeling just to wrap a powerful, gore covered arm around you. Barely, you bit back a squeak of surprise as he threw you effortlessly over his shoulder. Your fingers clawed into his back for support. Nervously, your breath quickened as you watched the ground pass by. 

You realized he was bringing you up to his bedroom again. A strange sort of excitement flooded your nerves. Not the basement. He wasn't taking you to the basement to put you back in that fucking chair and do to you what he'd done to others before you. You weren't going back down to the basement because he was pleased with you. He believed you. He believed you. Oh thank _God_ , he believed you. You shut your eyes, almost gratefully, as the stairs pass by.

Before you know it, your back's hitting a mattress and he's on top of you and your throat tightens. 

He's not going to kill you. _He's not going to kill you._

You wrap your arms around him in the heat of the moment, heart pounding in your chest. "I love you, I love you, Oh God, I think I love you," you seem to babble incessantly, feeling like you were on cloud nine. Your hands, shaking with excitement and relief and all the other indescribable, rushing emotions in you, reached to the back of Thomas' neck. Uncharacteristically rough, your fingers bury into his tangled, dark curls as you lean up to frantically kiss along his thick neck. An unmistakeable groan of pleasure comes from behind his mask as your lips press up under his jaw and chin, submissively. 

Almost curiously, his hand moves to grasp at the length of skirt at your thigh. Slowly, he pulls it up, like he's drinking in the exposure of your skin. It's different from all the times he's seen your thighs before when his oversized shirts clung so illy to your body. Thomas continued to pull up the skirt till it rested, bunched up at your waist. You shiver under his touch on your thigh before his fingers go to clench at one of the straps over your shoulder. A frenzied thrill once again consumed you as he easily tore it, like it was paper. You lay as still as possible for him as he proceeds to literally rip the rest of the dress off your body. 

Suddenly feeling much too exposed, much too fast, your hands feverishly went to your chest to cover your breasts. 

A low growl comes from Thomas as he reaches up. His grip is surprisingly gentle considering how aggressive his reach for your arms had been. You let him pull your arms down and away from your chest as your face begins to flush under his gaze. Slowly, his hand leaves your wrist and reached up to cup your chest. A soft exhale came from him as his tangled hair curtained his face. Your own shaking hand reached up to hold the back of his. You shivered when his hips ground into yours and you could feel his cock hard against your leg, even through his pants. The heat in your face seemed to begin to burn in the pit of your stomach as well. A frustrated sounding groan came from Thomas as he reached down with his free hand to palm at himself slightly. 

"Come here," you try softly. "I can help with that." 

He looks at you through narrowed, dark eyes. Then, he sits up, letting you up as well. Slowly, you reached for his belt. He watched keenly and silently as ever as your fingers undid his belt and the button of his pants. You looked up at him for some form of approval, some "go ahead", as your forefinger and thumb came to rest on the zipper. His head cocks slightly to the side and you take that as the sign you've been waiting for. The sound of the zipper made the hair on the back of your neck stand straight up but you quickly recomposed yourself and worked the waist of his pants down low over his hips. Your breath caught in your throat as you reached to trace your fingers along the thick trail of hair leading down to his crotch. He shivers under your touch and you cast another quick glance up at him. 

Was this actually about to happen? Were you actually gonna fuck this guy? 

You don’t remember whether or not you’re a virgin or if you’ve done anything like this before. But you have a pretty good idea of what you want to do—at least. Your fingers trace down a particularly prominent vein in his cock and a shiver runs through him as he inhales sharply. A growl of impatience follows and you’re quick to lower your head, shoulders hunching as you lean down and your soft breath on him sends another shiver through him. 

He seems so eager to have your lips wrapped around him that you doubt there’s much you can do to disappoint.

Is this his first time with anyone?

It seemed pretty likely. 

The idea that he might have been as inexperienced as you felt lent you just a bit of comfort.

Taking the first few inches into your mouth isn't as uncomfortable as you thought it would have been. His musk fills your nose and it's not entirely unpleasant to you. Thomas' rough hand finds its way into your hair, to the back of your head. You prepare yourself for a nasty yank or pull, but he simply lets his fingers intertwine through the locks of your (H/C) hair, a low, but satisfied groan crawling from his throat. It's a nice feeling, one that makes you feel somewhat...loved. The surprising gentleness is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. You take it as encouragement to try to work a couple more inches into your mouth and you try your best not to let your teeth touch him. 

The brute force you're more familiarized with starts to come back as your head moves slowly with every long suck. To be honest, you don't really know what you're doing, but it seemed like it was making him feel pretty good from the way his fingers were tightening into your scalp and he pushed your head further and further down his cock. Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes as you felt his tip at the back of your throat and you tried to focus on breathing in through your nose. At the same time, you couldn't ignore the unbearable heat in between your own legs.

Slowly, one of your hands left his leg and moved back to your own body. You couldn't think of any reasons why Thomas would have a problem with you tending to yourself at the same time as him. With the pheromone like cloud fogging up your brain it was hard to think at all. All you knew was that you couldn't go much longer aching like this. You parted your thighs while trying to focus on not gagging and continuing to move your head. Another groan came from Thomas as his head fell back and his eyes shut. 

Bitterly, you couldn't help but wish just for a second that it was his hand instead between your legs. 

Thomas jerks violently beneath you and suddenly sits straight up. A sharp gasp came from you as he suddenly pulls you up off his cock somewhat violently by your hair. You barely have time to register anything before he grabs you by your shoulders and flips you onto your back. The breath is forced from your lungs as you hit the mattress and blink in shock at his sudden movements. You did _not_ expect him to take back control this quick. For a moment, irritation flashed over you that you hadn't been able to get him to cum fast enough and he was displeased and was finally going to kill you now. Instead, his scarred hand slides between your legs somewhat clumsily. 

Is he...trying to actually give you pleasure too? You'd never thought that he'd actually want to make you feel good too--like you were making him feel. It was sort of...sweet. 

The fact that you were already pretty wet even before he'd had the chance to work his fingers in between your thighs helped a great deal. As much as he obviously wanted to pleasure you too, he was definitely inexperienced and really had no clue what he was doing. It just seemed like he was mimicking what you'd been doing with your own hand moments earlier. Biting down on your bottom lip and forcing back another shiver, you gently reach down to take his hand and slowly rub it over your clit. Even though you're practically puppeteering his hand, the feeling of fingers that aren't your own still sends waves of bliss and thrill running through you like ichor. 

Thomas is a quick learner. 

Eventually, he moves his hand from yours and begins to rub his fingers between your folds on his own. Not knowing where he was going to stroke or push up against next seemed to enhance the pleasure by tenfold. Involuntarily, your thighs tightened around him and he was quick to let out a low growl and shove one of your legs wider open, pinning it back against the mattress. Your hips push into his hand needily as your head presses back into the mattress. Knowing you couldn't be too loud, you bit down, hard, on your index finger, hoping it would stifle your increasingly louder moans. 

You bite harder to keep a yelp in the back of your throat, turning it into a low whine when one of Thomas' thick fingers pushes into you. You shut your eyes tightly as his thumb brushes up into your clit and you swear to God you're either going to climax or pass out or both right then and there. 

As your back begins to arch and the pleasure begins to spread into your core, Thomas suddenly jerks his hand out from between your legs. You felt so frustrated and overstimulated you thought you'd begin to cry. Before you can even beg for him to finish you off, his arm runs under your arched back. Once again, he flips you over and you try to steady yourself upon shaking hands and knees. Thomas' coarsely haired chest presses into your back as he positions himself overtop of you, his weight practically forcing you back into the mattress. The breath from your own lewd moan heated your flustered face even more as your cheek pushed into the sheets. Thomas' own breath warmed the side of your neck and you trembled beneath him. 

Then, one of his arms wraps underneath you, over your stomach, so that his fingers brush over your clit once again. 

"Tommy-" you start softly before you gasp again. 

Slowly, the tip of his cock brushes over your entrance. He still seems a little lost. You're tempted to try to reach back and help him line up better. However, he's quick to figure it out and you feel his hard length suddenly thrust deep into your pussy. Perspiration gathers at your brow as you shove your face even more into the sheets. You reach up to pull a pillow towards you and you bite into it, hard, your moans muffled in it. His fingers working slowly at your clit are enough to make you think you might pass out, once more. 

His strokes seemed clumsy and a bit awkward at first, like he wasn't sure what pace he wanted to go at. But slowly, he picked up a firm rhythm. Between the blood pounding in your ears and the slap of skin, you weren't even sure if your moans would have sounded audible. Still, you didn't test that theory, and continued to keep them in the back of your throat. You kept your jaws clamped firmly around the pillow as your nails clawed into the sheets. 

You could feel his torn, scarred lips and his tongue against the delicate skin of your neck. Then, he suddenly bit down, and you writhed beneath him. A low groan comes from him, his breath burning across your skin as he continued to bite across whatever happened to be available and near his teeth. You wouldn't have been surprised if he was drawing blood--not that you could tell from how overwhelmed you were. 

His other arm reaches over your shoulders and you feel his hand wrap around your throat. You bite down harder onto the pillow, as you feel an orgasm come on. He works you through it, like he doesn't even realize that you're cumming. You didn't dare make a noise--the idea of being walked in on like this by _any_ member of the household scared you to death. 

You cum one more time before he finally reaches his own climax. It's obviously his first--and enough to have him shamelessly groaning in your ear, gasping for breath before falling limp against you. You can feel the warmth of his seed deep in you and a soft sigh escapes you as you shut your eyes. He's quick to roll over to avoid completely crushing you into the mattress and suffocating you to death.

On his back, you can see how rapid his scarred chest is moving as he tried to catch his breath again. You're still shaking by the time you crawl to his side. You're somewhat cautious at first, not sure how he'd react to such close proximity. To your surprise, his arm wraps over your smaller body, somewhat protectively as he turns onto his side. He pulls you close to his body, fitting you so snugly against him there wasn't an inch of space to spare. The sudden affection makes your face flush again and that warm, fuzzy feeling floods your system all over again. There it was again.

The idea that you loved him. 

At least you think you did. He'd felt good. He'd felt _really_ good. Someone who didn't love you wouldn't have done that to you, right? Someone who didn't love you wouldn't have treated you like he did, even after you'd disobeyed him, right? 

You turned over in his arms to face Thomas. Your eyelids felt weighted with sudden exhaustion as you nuzzled into his chest, pressing up even closer to him. Your eyes fall shut as his palm presses to the back of your head and stays there, his finger rubbing slow, small circles into your hair. 

The uncontrollable, manic thought crosses your mind again.

_I love him._

And again. And again. And again. 


End file.
